


Five Minutes to Midnight

by backitup_baby



Series: Here Comes Trouble [3]
Category: Batwoman (Comic), DCU - Comicverse, Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backitup_baby/pseuds/backitup_baby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It's cute how you're trying," Catwoman says, that smirk still on her face. It's infuriating enough to make Quinn buck her lower body, trying to shake off the Catwoman's hold on her, but the Catwoman stays in place. "Is that the best you got?"</i>
</p><p>  <i>"Not quite," Quinn spits out, gritting her teeth and headbutting the Catwoman in the nose and mouth as hard as she can.</i></p><p>In which a mysterious woman keeps dogging Quinn Fabray everywhere Quinn looks. Santana cooks Puerto Rican food and dusts for fingerprints, and Colonel Russell Fabray finally realizes what his beloved daughter's been doing during her nights out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Minutes to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanderinghope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderinghope/gifts).



All in all, things seem to be working out pretty well for Quinn Fabray. A few hours ago, she’d taken down the ringleader of a child prostitution ring in his own apartment. It hadn’t been an easy fight, either, though Quinn didn’t mind; those were the ones that really got her adrenaline going. 

She writes about her escapades in a diary sometimes, just to remember what had gone right and where she needed to improve. And, ever since Santana had found it in the bottom of Quinn’s nightstand drawer and read it out loud, a smirk on her face all the while, Quinn’s taken to keeping it in a locked safe. Her girlfriend was a cop, after all. Santana wouldn’t resort to breaking and entering just to make fun of Quinn. And sometimes Quinn just needs to keep some things to herself.

–

After getting home from the fight, Quinn texts Santana to come over before getting in the shower. Santana lives on the other side of town, so the timing works well.

 _This is nice,_ Quinn thinks to herself, smiling a little as she watches Santana busy herself over a pot of hot oil, dipping half-circles of pastry and tapping her foot while she waits for them to cook. “Em-pa-na–”

“Empanadilla,” Santana says, turning her head to look at Quinn over her shoulder. “It’s not that hard.”

Quinn blushes, swinging her legs slightly. She’s perched up on one of the counters; Santana had exiled her away from cooking in her own kitchen after Quinn had offered the fact that she’d once gone to Cancún as a way to make conversation about Santana’s heritage. “Empana–” She pauses, then tries to hear Santana saying the word in her head, before trying again. “Empanadilla.”

“Not bad,” Santana says, with grudging approval. She reaches in with tongs and lifts one of the stuffed pastries out of the oil and onto a stack of paper towels. 

“Not bad?” Quinn echoes. “That was pretty good.” She gets up off of the counter, landing lightly on the balls of her feet, and reaches out for the empanadilla. Santana, though, smacks her hand away.

“Wait,” she says, shooting Quinn a stern look before fussing over the food again. “You want your tongue to get burned off? You need that thing.”

Quinn finds herself blushing again, just at the tone Santana’s using. They’ve been seeing each other – dating, really – for three weeks and a day, ever since the Incident with Killer Croc. Quinn isn’t counting; it’s just something she happens to know. But they haven’t had sex yet. 

It’s not that Quinn doesn’t want to. And she can _definitely_ tell that Santana does. It’s more that their jobs don’t exactly leave a lot of leisure time. Quinn keeps odd hours, sleeping throughout most of the day, and while Santana used to take more night shifts, she’d recently been promoted to corporal. Instead of coming home to find Santana just getting back from nights out, Quinn now has to be as quiet as possible when she’s taking off her cape and boots to make sure she doesn’t wake up Santana in the middle of the night. They don’t really have as many sleepovers as before, anymore.

“Okay, I’ll wait,” Quinn says, tapping her fingers impatiently on the counter. She reaches her other hand out and rubs Santana’s lower back slightly, taking in the look of concentration on her face as she prods the empanadillas in the oil before lifting another one out. 

A comfortable silence that settles between them, and Quinn sighs contentedly to herself right before Santana speaks. “I was thinking,” she says, glancing over at Quinn. “Saturday night. You planning on doing any patrolling?”

Quinn bites her lip. “I completely forgot to tell you.” Which is actually true, though she knows it probably comes off like a lie. “My parents – well, my _stepmom_ , really – are having a gala Saturday night.”

“Yeah?” Santana cocks an eyebrow and smirks slightly. “Bringing a date?”

 _Shit._ “I… I don’t think I’m allowed to,” Quinn lies, forcing herself to hold Santana’s gaze. “Judy, she’s my stepmom – she likes to make sure I’m not just paying attention to my date.”

“Big-shot heir to the Fabray family fortune and all,” Santana says, looking at – no, scrutinizing Quinn. 

Quinn gives a weak shrug. “That’s me, I guess.”

Santana’s silent again for a moment, then gives a shrug of her own. “I probably have things I should be doing, too, anyway.” She lifts the rest of the empanadillas out and lays them down on the plate. 

“Oh?” Quinn waits until Santana sets the tongs down before putting her hands on Santana’s waist, pulling her closer. “Work things?”

“You know,” Santana says, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s neck and closing the distance between them. She leans in and brushes her lips against Quinn’s before smirking. Despite the briefness of the kiss, it’s enough to make Quinn bit her lip and curse herself silently for showing weakness and want. “Someone’s gotta clean up the batcrew’s mess.”

–

Quinn isn’t necessarily in the _closet_. Her dad knows, and so did her mom. But her stepmom definitely does not, and Quinn knows that Judy Fabray’s obsession with society and ‘sending the right image’ means that she’s likely predisposed to not be the biggest fan of Quinn’s gayness. Well – Quinn might more be on the bisexual side of the spectrum, since whenever Dick Grayson’s around, she finds herself overly fascinated by his biceps. But that’s a technicality that doesn’t really get in the way of what she has with Santana.

Quinn really likes her. She doesn’t want to mess things up, and introducing Santana Lopez to the Fabray family – to Judy Fabray in particular – without knowing that they’re really serious? That sounds like a recipe for disaster. 

That night in bed, she drapes an arm around Santana from behind and sighs, tucking her face into the crook of Santana’s neck. “We’ll catch the next gala, okay?” she whispers. 

Santana mumbles something Quinn can’t hear, then turns her body a little so she’s leaning more into her. “Do I have to be fancy?”

Quinn bites her lip to stop the smile from spreading too much. “Yeah. Think you can handle it?”

“I clean up pretty good, Fabray. You just wait.”

–

That Saturday, Quinn finishes off her third flute of champagne and rolls her eyes at nothing and everything, looking down on the festivities from upstairs. She wonders if Bruce Wayne will be there tonight, or even just Dick Grayson. Someone she can actually talk to. 

Her stomach growls then, reminding her that she hasn’t had anything to really eat yet, and though she was determined to not enjoy the party at all (besides the drinks, of course), the food being served downstairs looks too tempting for her to ignore. Setting the glass on the railing, Quinn descends down the staircase and is immediately accosted by one of the waitstaff.

“Hamachi appetizer?” The woman holding the tray has dark hair and eyes, and Quinn is reminded somewhat of Santana in the way that they’ve both got that same kind of bold, easy stare. 

Quinn holds her hand out and the waitress places a napkin on her palm, then sets the bite on the napkin. Quinn waits for her to walk away, since eating hors d’oeuvres in front of the waitstaff is pretty high up on her Awkward list, but the woman just stands there. “Yes?” Quinn asks, trying her best to control the slight irritation she’s feeling.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t realize – you’re Quinn Fabray, aren’t you?” The woman reaches her free hand up to smooth down her wavy hair.

“Yes, that’s me,” Quinn says, a fixed smile on her face as she wonders why this woman won’t take a hint and go off to serve someone else. “Welcome to my childhood home.” 

Instead of walking away, though, the waitress leans in a little closer. Quinn can smell her perfume. “How much is Judy Fabray expecting to raise for the hungry tonight?” 

Quinn knows it’s kind of stupid, fighting hunger with an event like this, but past experience has proven that when it comes to Judy Fabray, it’s easier to just show up and not do anything as opposed to not showing up at all. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” she says in response, honestly, because most of her time is spent either out patrolling Gotham City or with Santana. Her father’s been trying to schedule a time for Quinn to come over to the Fabray estate for brunch with him in Judy, but Quinn’s been able to sucessfully dodge the invitations so far, claiming scheduling conflicts.

She’s hoping that her clear desire for this conversation to be over is evident enough for the waitress to take a hint, but the other woman’s persistent. “Just make sure,” she says, her voice dropping down low. Quinn’s gaze lowers to the waitress’ mouth for a moment, then back up. “It’d be a shame for all of the money your family’s raising tonight to go to waste. Make sure it actually does some good.”

The insinuation is clear and Quinn knows that she should be offended on behalf of her stepmother, but she can’t honestly bring herself to be. “That’s my family you’re talking about,” she replies, archly, because that’s what she’s supposed to say, before turning and walking away.

–

_Though Colonel Russell Fabray had been able to track the abductors down to where they’d taken Quinn’s mother, it’d been too late to save her. Quinn, though, was still alive in the corner, her hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth. After getting rid of the bonds and making sure she hadn’t been hurt, Russell had picked Quinn up and cradled her to his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered, even though Quinn was sure nothing would ever be okay again._

_A week later, they held the funeral of Sue Sylvester-Fabray in the springtime. It rained halfway through, and Quinn took shelter underneath a tree as she watched the priest say a prayer at the gravesite. Russell had walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder as his attempt at comfort. They said nothing._

_A month after that, Russell introduced Quinn to Judy._

–

“I didn’t mean any offense, earlier,” the waitress says to Quinn about an hour later, now holding a tray full of of individual savory pies. She smiles, her lips parting to reveal a mouth of too-perfect teeth. “Filo pastry?”

Quinn can’t help but roll her eyes, and Dick Grayson, who had been at the gala after all, laughs. “We’ll take some. Thank you.” Quinn, who had been in no mind to thank the waitress for prying and overstepping her place, steps on his foot accidentally-on-purpose and turns to walk away. 

“Quinn,” the woman says, actually following her and leaving Dick there with handfuls of pastry. He shrugs at Quinn and starts eating. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Quinn replies, turning around and fixing the waitress with a sharp glare and lowering her voice. “I have it on good authority that we’re paying you very well to be here, and the economic slump’s not going to let up any time soon. If I hear any more from you about my family and my personal life, I will make sure you no longer have a position with Gotham City Catering.” She looks down again at the woman’s small nameplate. “Saskia.”

To her credit, Saskia lowers her eyes, remorse evident on her face. And maybe it’s because now Quinn actually has a name to go with the face, but Saskia’s voice is begining to sound kind of familiar to her. “You’re right. I was out of line tonight.” 

Quinn can’t help a satisfied smile from appearing on her face before she walks back over to Dick, whose tuxedo is now faintly covered with filo crumbs.

“Someone’s wound up,” Dick whispers, brushing his dinner jacket some to get the crumbs off. He puts a hand on Quinn’s waist and takes her hand in his other as they begin to join the other couples on the dance floor.

“She keeps prying,” Quinn retorts. “I can’t help it that she’s irritating.” She’s silent for a moment, concentrating on getting the steps correct as they dance, before she speaks up again. “I think I know her from somewhere, though. Saskia. The waitress.” She tries to remember where from, but the memory eludes her. 

–

It isn’t until Quinn goes back upstairs, after everyone’s left, to change out of her dress and back into her regular clothes to go home, when she realizes not everything is in its place. Her mother’s charm necklace, which Quinn usually wore around her neck but had opted against that evening, is gone. She spends forty-five minutes searching her bedroom for the jewelry before texting Santana. 

_I think someone stole my necklace._

She doesn’t have to wait long for Santana’s reply, as usual. **shit. u gonna report it?**

Quinn really doesn’t want to. She still trusts the GCPD as far as she can throw them, even though she’s dating one of them, and there isn’t any reason why she can’t track down whoever did it herself. 

Her phone buzzes again and she opens the new message, wondering how Santana already knows her well. **at least do it so we got a record of it before u go batwomaning, ok?**

She texts Santana back, answering in the affirmative, before sending Dick a message, too (he’s much more accessible than Bruce, even though they get along fine). _Do you have any pro-tips for fingerprinting that you can share with me?_

–

The next day, Quinn goes with Santana to the GCPD headquarters. Despite Quinn’s worries, Santana seems completely at ease with the fact that she wasn’t invited to the Fabray gala fundraiser. 

“What did you end up doing last night?” Quinn asks, glancing over at Santana while she drives. After Quinn reports the theft, their plan is to go to brunch (on Quinn, since she’s still feeling guilty about it and because Santana doesn’t really make that much money).

“You know,” Santana says, and it’s so vague for her that Quinn looks back over at Santana, wondering if there’s something she’s not saying, before her girlfriend speaks up again. “We got a tip off about some shit going down at that abandoned building at the corner of Kane and Fisher St., so I thought I’d stop by just to see what was going on.”

Quinn likes that they have shared interests. “And? What’d you find?” she asks, interested.

“No one.” Quinn can tell from the sound of Santana’s voice that she was disappointed to not actually interrupt anything. “But there _was_ a shit ton of meth. Might be an on-the-fly warehouse. I’m gonna keep my eye on it.”

Drug busts aren’t Quinn’s favorite, but she offers her assistance anyway to be polite. “Would you like me to stop by next time I’m on patrol?”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Santana says, a little too quickly and firmly. Quinn wonders if it’s because Santana still doesn’t trust her as Batwoman, if she wants this case all for herself, or if she really doesn’t think she’ll need back-up. “I got this one.”

“Okay,” Quinn says, looking over at Santana uncertainly. Santana parks the car and smiles at Quinn, who glances around to make sure no one’s watching before leaning in and kissing Santana. 

“Let’s go report your theft,” Santana says once she’s broken the kiss. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Quinn says, getting out of the car. She lets her hand brush against Santana’s as they walk.

–

There’s a part of Quinn that feels very out of place and uncomfortable at the GCPD headquarters, even though Santana stays by her side the whole time. She reports the crime to the clerk, all the while wishing that she had been able to collect more than just a partial fingerprint (Quinn has to admit that whoever had done the job was good). 

Meanwhile, though, all the cops eye Quinn curiously and she wonders if she gives off ‘I’m a caped vigilante superhero – arrest me!’ vibes. Santana crosses her arms and stares back at anyone looking at Quinn, and Quinn finds herself wondering if the cops know Santana’s a lesbian. If they know that they’re dating. For the first time, Quinn realizes that she really doesn’t know Santana all _that_ well.

–

“Quinn Fabray,” says a familiar voice, and Quinn looks up to see the waitress from the night before standing at their table with an apron tied around her waist. 

“Who’re you?” Santana says possessively before Quinn can even respond. Quinn can see Santana do a once-over of the waitress and set her jaw tightly in response. For some reason, Quinn feels very self-conscious in her jeans and polo shirt, given the last outfit she was in the last time she had seen Saskia.

“She was part of the catering staff last night,” Quinn says quietly to Santana, looking at her in a way that she hopes conveys that she’ll tell her more later, before looking expectantly up at Saskia and holding her hand out for the brunch menu.

“My name’s Saskia,” she says smoothly to Santana as she passes out the brunch menus. “I’ll be back soon to take your orders.” Saskia smiles lingers on Quinn a little too long before she leaves for another table.

“Cute,” Santana says, and Quinn realizes that she’s jealous – or, at the very least, marking her territory. “If you like big noses and manhands.”

While Quinn doesn’t necessarily think that Santana’s giving an accurate description, she can’t help but suspect that this may be less of a coincidence. “Do you have your fingerprinting kit with you? I just want to see something.” 

Santana raises an eyebrow, but takes the kit out of her bag all the same. “You found prints last night?” 

Quinn nods, then makes a big show of moving her chair and opening her menu wide. She’s lucky Santana’s seated in the corner of the restaurant. “Can you do it?” 

After glancing over her shoulder to make sure Saskia isn’t returning yet, Santana shakes the jar of fingerprinting powder vigorously, then removes the lid and dips her brush in the powder that’s accumulated inside the lid. After brushing the powder carefully over where Saskia had touched the menu, she takes out her lifting tape and, using a plastic ID card to make sure there aren’t any bubbles between the tape and the menu’s surface, quickly places the tape on the fingerprint backing card. She repeats the process, then hands Quinn the cards.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Quinn says, blushing once she realises she’d said the pet name in public.

Santana smirks in response as she puts the fingerprinting kit away. “You’re welcome. Good luck.”

–

That afternoon, once she’s home, Quinn takes out the partial print from Saturday night and sets it down next to the prints from brunch. She’s using a piece of white paper on her kitchen table and she squints a bit, studying and comparing the patterns. She’s not used to this kind of detective work at all; Santana had offered to take a look, but Quinn wanted to do this on her own.

Finally, she thinks she might see a section of similarities. She brings the partial print over to the full print in question, biting her lip as she follows the lines with her eyes. _This might be a match,_ she thinks to herself, running a hand through her hair. 

Quinn’s pleased that she might actually have a lead, but she isn’t sure what the next step is from here. She knows Bruce has a local crime database, so she can likely to go him with the prints and Saskia’s physical description. It’s the best shot she has right now, anyway, that doesn’t involve the police directly. Bruce is supposed to be out patrolling tonight, anyway, so Quinn stands up from the kitchen table, stretching her arms above her head, and walks over to where she keeps her costume. 

And, before she heads out for the night, she makes sure the fingerprints are tucked safely into one of her belt pouches.

–

Bruce is over in the East End of Gotham – Santana’s neighborhood – so Quinn gets onto her brand new batcycle and heads in that direction. She takes a minute to appreciate how badass she feels, her hair blowing in the wind and her cape billowing out behind her, when suddenly she sees a dark figure rappelling down the side of a building. 

Quinn’s pretty sure that isn’t the type of thing that most people tend to do when it’s past midnight in Gotham City, so she pulls over on the side of the road, shutting the batcycle off, and is there in time to solidly tackle the figure, getting both of them under the glare of a streetlight.

Now that she can see, Quinn realizes she’s fought this same robber before. The Catwoman’s lips curve in a wicked smirk and, just as Quinn wonders where she’s seen that smile before, brings her fist up solidly into Quinn’s jaw. 

It’s a good hit; Quinn has to give her _that_ much credit. And it catches Quinn by surprise enough for the Catwoman to push up and flip so Quinn’s underneath her, breathing hard and wondering how to gain back the advantage. 

“It’s cute how you’re trying,” Catwoman says, that smirk still on her face. It’s infuriating enough to make Quinn buck her lower body, trying to shake off the Catwoman’s hold on her, but the Catwoman stays in place. “Is that the best you got?”

“Not quite,” Quinn spits out, gritting her teeth and headbutting the Catwoman in the nose and mouth as hard as she can. It works and Quinn can’t help but let out a laugh as her assailant stumbles back, a hand up to her face. Quinn springs up, grabbing her baton and following, a predatory look on her face. 

“Really,” Catwoman says, and Quinn is completely convinced of her insanity when she lets out a bubbling, crazed laugh. “It’s cute how you’re trying.” She holds up something, and Quinn feels like she can’t breathe when she realizes it’s the fingerprints she’d put in her belt earlier. 

“Give me those,” Quinn growls, though the shock of it all is enough to render her frozen to the spot as she watches the Catwoman back slowly away. She reaches in her belt for a batarang, but the Catwoman laughs again and shakes her head.

“Good luck on your future endeavors,” Catwoman says airily. Quinn throws the batarang and it lodges in her opponent’s arm, but the Catwoman just winces and pulls it out. Quinn realizes that she’s headed for the batcycle, and she wills her legs to _work_ as she starts running. She knows, though, that despite her best efforts, she’s too late, and, as though to confirm her suspicions, this Catwoman isn’t done talking yet. “Thanks for the bike,” she yells, straddling the seat and driving away.

Quinn’s pretty sure that this is the worst Batwoman endeavor yet: standing on the corner of an abandoned Gotham City street, her proof tying Saskia to the case of her missing necklace gone. “I just fucking _bought_ that bike!” she yells to no one, then bites back the urge to cry.

–

Of course, though she didn’t think the night could get any worse, Colonel Russell Fabray is standing in her secret entranceway when she comes home. Quinn stares at him silently, still in her full costume, and opens her mouth but no words come out.

“So,” he says, and Quinn automatically puts her feet together in a forty-five-degree angle and straightens out her posture.

“Yes, sir?”

Her father walks closer to her and raises his eyebrows slightly, reaching out to tug at the mask she’s wearing. She can tell he’s pissed. “In God’s name, how long have you been doing this, Lieutenant?”

Quinn can’t help but take it as a good sign that he’s still addressing her by the rank she would’ve been had she fully entered the army after West Point; maybe he isn’t about to ship her off to Arkham Asylum after their conversation. But that doesn’t negate the fact that her father is well and truly pissed off. “I–”

“It doesn’t matter, actually,” Russell says, flexing his hands dangerously. “You’re going to put a stop to this, or I will.” 

“But–” Quinn resists the urge to stamp her foot like a child. “You don’t get it. This is the only way I can serve. You know what it meant to me – after what happened to mom. And you know how it felt when that chance was taken away from me.”

Her father looks at her with hard eyes and the silence is tense between them. “Not like this,” he says, finally. “If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do this right.”

“Then how am I –” It occurs to Quinn belatedly that her father actually seems to be on her side for this. “I mean, sir,” she says, lowering her head slightly. “What’s the next step?”

Russell studies her again for a moment. “First step is to get your face checked out, because I’ll bet you’re going to have a wicked bruise tomorrow morning. And then afterwards… we’ll talk next steps.” He pauses, and Quinn wonders if he’s going to say anything else, before he opens his mouth again. “At ease, soldier.”

Quinn relaxes, then, for the first time that night, and smiles. “You’ll see,” she promises, and she isn’t sure if she’s reassuring her father or herself more. “I can do this.”


End file.
